


Blended in Measure

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Character Study, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small stories set along the journey to Erebor, about a king without a mountain, an honest burglar, and the fine company they keep.  </p><p>Here there be <b>book and movie spoilers</b>, and eventually dragons.  Or at least one dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This begins after "An Unexpected Journey" ends and follows, generally, the plot of "The Hobbit" book. Some liberties have been taken with details, placing this in some muzzy limbo between book and film, and I fully expect "The Desolation of Smaug" to blow it all to hell.
> 
> I think more shall come, as I write it. Largely gen to start, with a tilt towards growing Thorin/Bilbo affections.

The sky was just beginning to darken to the west, where the faint red and deep burnish of sunset was creeping up over the treetops; their host had bade them stay inside after nightfall, and heeding the wish of gigantic, ill-tempered bear-men seemed the wisest course, for the moment. This would be their second night under Master Beorn's hospitality, and while the company surely seemed to appreciate the warm hearth and ample bowls of honey and cream, Thorin was growing more restless hour by hour. The eagles had bought them time and distance, but Azog would not be so easily shaken from their trail, and Durin's Day loomed darkly in his thoughts, casting a shadow over his mood taller than the peak of Erebor itself. Every day lost could mean an entire journey wasted— a year to wait if they were especially lucky, and slaughtered by greedy usurpers in the interim if they were not.

The key tucked securely in his pocket and the promise of a home finally reclaimed was fore in his mind, of course, but it was not his sole concern.

“We've lost our host,” he said, hoarse after hours of tacit contemplation, and the low chattering around him petered to silence. The queer comforts of the skinchanger's hall encouraged an ease of repose that Thorin railed against down to his bones. “And our wizard. Tell me we've not lost our burglar as well.”

“He's gone outside,” Dwalin offered, barely glancing from a thorough cleaning and oiling of his wicked gauntlets. 

“Aye, on the veranda, last I looked.” Bofur rubbed lazily at his eyes, having obviously been drowsing by the great, smouldering fire. “Shall I fetch him?”

“No.” Hoisting himself to his feet, Thorin started off towards the veranda without another word. If the silence left in his wake was noisy with unspoken questions, at least his company had wits enough to hold their tongues. Let them gossip like old women when he could not hear; the whispers they bandied about were not the sort to test loyalty— merely his patience. 

The halfling was where the others had said, perched outside on a wide wooden bench, the height of which lifted his feet from the ground until only the tips of his long, hairy toes brushed the decking. Pale, bluish smoke drifted from his lips and the pipe that hung from them; the Blue Mountains had some trade with the Shire, but Thorin had never smelled leaf burn quite so smoothly. The sweet, earthy tang of fine pipeweed reminded Thorin of nothing else but a cosy little home dug in a rolling green hill.

The sputtering Bilbo Baggins well-met that fateful night bore only a vague resemblance to the hobbit sitting before Thorin now; the wittering softness and pomp had not been sloughed off entirely, but keener edges had been tempered, growing ever sharper. Like a vein of gleaming silver hidden beneath shale, there was worth in the halfling's core that Thorin could not dare deny.

He was not yet keen enough to keep from startling, however, when Thorin spoke from the doorway. “It is nearly supper." 

“I— oh.” Turning from what had appeared to be deep rumination on the riot of flowers that grew up to the edge of the veranda, Bilbo plucked the pipe from his mouth and coughed around a mouthful of smoke. “Oh, yes, well. Is it? I suppose it is.”

With his ruined waistcoat gaping under his jacket, brass buttons lost somewhere in the mountains and hems beginning to show tattering, Bilbo looked even less like the little man of leisure who had stumbled out of the Shire on their heels. If they had the means to find and barter with a proper armourer, Thorin would have kitted the hobbit in boiled leathers and brooked no argument; brocade was not sufficient attire for tackling orcs, no matter how elegant the weave.

“You've time to finish your pipe,” he said, and motioned for Bilbo to remain sitting. “And to glean whatever answers you seek in the greenery, but do come in shortly. Night is falling.”

“Of course.” With one final puff, Bilbo cupped his palm over the mouth of his pipe and sucked briefly, extinguishing the embers. Hopping down from the bench, he returned the warm pipe to its pocket with careful, practiced motions, and favoured Thorin with a slim sort of smile. It did nothing for the shadows in his eyes, nor the tightness of his brows. If any son of Thrain had ever worn his feelings so clearly on his face, even as a child, the rebuke would have been swift and firm as iron. “I think I'm quite done with gawping at flowers for the moment.”

“Something is troubling you.” More homesickness, no doubt, but Thorin no longer expected the hobbit to vanish between one blink and the next. It hadn't been so very long ago that Thorin laid silently and watched their little burglar steal off into the night, intent on retreating back to familiar warmth and safety. He had not tried to intervene then; if the same were to come to pass again, Thorin was not convinced he would hold his tongue a second time. Bilbo Baggins had proven his mettle and earned a place amongst them, more than once over. Losing him now would lessen them, without question.

Still again, the yearning for home was something Thorin understood all too well.

Forestalling the stammering that his observation had prompted, Thorin gestured for quiet. Bilbo paused, shifting from foot to foot and worrying the edges of his dusty coat with clever fingers.

“If you have concerns,” Thorin said, stepping out onto the veranda and turning his gaze beyond, to the lush gardens and the forest farther afield. The wooden railing was warm under his palms when he leaned upon it, still heated by the weakening sun. “I would hear them. You are a member of this company, Mister Bilbo Baggins, and the only halfling within a band of dwarves. I am wise enough to value a different way of looking at the world. What weighs on your mind?" 

“It's nothing.” Beside him, he heard Bilbo huff a frustrated breath, and Thorin waited. The garden below was humming with bees, milling drunkenly with great mounds of pollen clinging to their legs. “It... it's silly, is what it is. Nothing worth mentioning.”

Arching forward a bit more, Thorin tilted his head toward the west, closing his eyes against the glare winking through the trees. After so long above ground, traipsing this world of green grass and fresh breezes, he had grown a slight appreciation for the feel of sunlight on his skin. It was not as comforting as the dry heat of deepest earth, funnelled through ducts to chase the chill from great stone halls, but it would do for the moment.

The railing did not creak when Bilbo rested against it as well, but Thorin knew the presence of a living body beside his own, even with eyes closed. “It's silly,” Bilbo said again, and Thorin hummed once, beneath the droning chorus. “It's just, after all this. After trolls and goblins, and _storm giants_ for goodness sake...” Hobbit fingers drummed against the railing, rhythmic, but Thorin did not recognize the tune. “Our host is as big as a bear when a man, and I've little doubt he's nearly the size of a house when a bear. Why... Why in the world is it that his honey bees, of all things, make me feel so very _small_?”

Laughter did not come freely to Thorin Oakenshield, nor had it done before the great calamity of Smaug, and he had rarely felt its absence as a lack. The bark of it that escaped him at that moment, with one poor hobbit baring his worries as Thorin had bade him do, likely surprised all those present. Perhaps even the bees themselves.

“It is not funny,” Bilbo muttered, but a glance down confirmed the smile Thorin had heard threading through those words. It was wider and much more amused than the wan expression the hobbit had offered only shortly before. Though the unexpected laugh had come and gone in barely an instant, Thorin allowed a slight answering lift of his own mouth. Bilbo's own face lightened even further at the sight of it, blue eyes bright as gems, before Thorin turned his gaze westward again.

“Because they are familiar,” Thorin said, even as his mind drifted to thoughts of Erebor. The mountain was not often out of his mind entirely, but now he could not help but wonder: would the halls yawn cavernous and splendid around him, as they did in his memories, or had decades trudged beneath an endless sky enured him against the vastness of his forefathers' kingdom? Would he feel small facing Erebor at last, as tiny as this hobbit felt before a swarm of oversized bees, or something else? “Yet queer. I did not see many storm giants or skinchangers in your Shire, but indeed there were bees.”

Bilbo laughed easily, of course, as hobbits were wont. Even the astonishing ones. “Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that. I've more than one relation who is easily as tetchy as a badger, and I can't say I recall ever seeing them by the light of the moon.”

A cry rose from inside the hall, and Thorin tensed before he heard Gandalf's name in the din, along with shouts of welcome. It seemed their wizard had returned; they would enjoy one more night of Beorn's charity, and then it was past time to be done with this place.

“Come.” The hobbit's shoulder felt narrow under the clap of his hand, and Thorin took care to keep the pat gentle, as he might reassure a pony rather than the hearty slaps shared among his kin. Bilbo could earn his own bruises without help. “Let us see what news Gandalf brings.”


	2. Chapter 2

There were days when Thorin was utterly certain that arguing with a wizard was as efficient a pastime as smithing with a candle in place of a forge, or mining ore with a teaspoon. On this day, he bowed grudgingly to Gandalf's judgement, unease gnawing his gut, and set both Fili and Kili to sit first watch, with Dwalin and Gloin to follow after, and so forth. There would not be a moment of solitary watch that night; Gandalf scoffed at his caution, blowing fanciful shapes in pipe smoke that floated up to the blackened rafters, but Thorin would only bend so far.

Having been ignominiously banished off to bed, as one would a recalcitrant child, Bilbo was curled up in his bedroll when Thorin sought him out. The hobbit deigned to peer up at his approach, and Thorin ignored the twinge of regret he felt under that scrutiny. Perhaps he ought to have rebuked the wizard for his harsh dismissal of Bilbo's concerns, but that had not seemed the canniest course; Gandalf in a bluster was of no use to anyone, least of all their current company.

“I've set double watches.” Lowering himself into a squat, Thorin regarded Bilbo steadily. “Your concerns are not unwarranted, no matter what assurances the wizard might offer. I do not know our host well enough to trust his intentions, and his travel to the west sits ill with me. As it does with you.”

“Good.” Bilbo squirmed in his bedding, rolling onto his back. “It's better to be overcautious than eaten by wargs, which is a phrase I never imagined I'd utter in my life, but here we are.”

The spark that Gandalf's dismissal had dimmed was not yet fully returned, but Bilbo did not seem entirely defeated. That was good to see, and Thorin patted the hobbit's shoulder once more before rising to stand.

“Indeed. Get some rest; we move on tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo said, before he could move off. Thorin paused long enough to nod, shallow but slow, then retreated to prepare for his own sleep.

 

* * *

 

From across the hall, Thorin watched as Beorn lifted Bilbo by the scruff of the neck, easier than a cat might lift a newborn kitten. The sudden, unyielding press of gnarled wood across his thighs was all that kept him sitting, and he very nearly snarled in Gandalf's placid face.

“You test me, wizard,” he said instead, quietly enough to keep the others ignorant. Gandalf did not move the staff that penned him to his seat, but neither did he fight when Thorin shoved it away himself.

“I believe,” Gandalf replied, a portrait of calm. “You claimed no responsibility for Bilbo's safety, or his fate. Your mind may have changed, but mine has not; he is under my protection and in no danger, as long as you keep your head.” 

If Bilbo had not been already returned to his feet and on his way towards the great table, looking only mildly out-of-sorts, Thorin would have pressed on despite the warning. As it was, there seemed no need to intervene. Beorn's attention, much more jovial than it had been, shifted to the company at large and the meal being trotted out before them.

As rams and hounds shuffled with bowls and plates, Thorin caught Bilbo's eye, and the small shrug he received in return was just enough to placate. They would eat, they would leave, and Thorin and their wizard would soon enough have words, once these lodging were behind them.

But then the skinchanger had shown them the massive white pelt nailed to a tree outside, and the ghoulish pale head staked up nearby, dripping foul black blood. In the face of that, of proof the Defiler finally lay dead, Thorin had no words and scarcely more thoughts.

One scourge of his kin, of Durin's line, killed while Thorin son of Thrain slept on unknowing, dry and warm.

He did not imagine the dragon would go down quite so easily for their company, but only time would tell.


	3. Chapter 3

Mirkwood was certainly aptly-named, as well as thrice-cursed. Thorin had never experienced such a place, desolate and suffocating all at once, the air both chilled and fetid. It was unnatural, pure poison from twisting roots to cobwebbed treetops, and the only thing worse than their eerie trekking in the day was the impossible blackness of the night.

“Please tell me one of you can see something.” That was the hobbit, somewhere in the gloom, and Thorin turned towards the sound of his voice. “Anything at all would be reassuring at this juncture.”

“I can't even see my own nose,” Ori said, off to the right, and the others muttered similar complaints. Blinking did no good, Thorin learned; the darkness was absolute.

“Stay together, all of you.” Every step brought him bumping against one familiar body or another— here was the coarse shock of Bifur's hair, there was the smooth curve of Kili's bow, the unyielding bulk of Dwalin, and there was Bombur's girth. “Take a count.”

They sounded off, one at a time, until lastly Thorin heard “Bilbo,” called from just behind him, and he reached towards the name, curling his fingers in the soft fabric of that foolish ruined waistcoat. The hobbit squeaked out a rather surprised sound, gripping Thorin's wrist, but seemed to relax the moment Thorin hushed him.

“Keep hold of at least one other,” he said, and Bilbo did not resist being pulled forward, close enough for Thorin to wrap an arm snugly around his shoulders. “One alone is easier to lose than two or more. Settle in, and do not wander.”

Starting a fire was a lesson in wretchedness— what wood they had gathered before the darkness fell was oily to the touch, but did not easily take to flame. When their kindling finally lit, the smoke was foul, stinking of sulphur and rot, and the fire sputtered even without a breath of breeze.

Beyond the tiny, wavering wreath of light, the forest was still darker than pitch, draped around them in thick velvet curtains. When the first moths swooped in, dozens in varying shades of ash and nearly as large as sparrows, Bilbo clasped his hands over his head and groaned quietly, still sitting pressed near Thorin's side. When the number grew to hundreds, then even more, with dusty wings beating and brushing against their faces, Thorin ordered the fire doused. The light was nearly blotted out by the swarm, regardless.

He set watch shifts, all too aware of the irony of the word when they were wholly blind, then laid his bedroll within arm's reach of their little burglar, keeping one hand resting lightly on Bilbo's sleeve. The hobbit, for his part, did not seem to mind; his grip around Thorin's wrist had returned, looser than before.

Sleep did not come easily, even after the moths dispersed, though a few nearby snores and whistling breaths told Thorin that some had managed to overcome the horrible, foreboding gloom at least somewhat. When the blackness behind his eyelids offered nothing different than the dark before him, however, Thorin could not quiet his mind. Eventually, perhaps an eternity later, he felt Bilbo shift closer. It was more welcome than Dori's elbow jabbing at his kidneys, which was a fine justification to slide forward as well, had Thorin required one.

The halfling's hair was soft and smelled of old copper and wet earth, and Thorin pressed his nose against it when Bilbo's brow knocked against his chin. The scent was better than the reek of Mirkwood around them.

“There are eyes, in the dark.” More wind than whisper, Thorin might not have heard the words if Bilbo were not speaking them against his neck, worming closer to his ear. “Can you see them?”

“Aye.” It was no mere fancy of a frightened mind; here and there in inky shadows, Thorin could see pairs of eyes gleaming, watching. Whatever creature lurked there made no sound, however, nor any moves closer to the huddle of their company so far as he could tell. “Dawn will come quicker if you sleep." 

“Ha.” Bilbo's breath gusted hot and moist against his jaw, and the hobbit's knees pressed lightly against his stomach. “Wake me if we're about to be eaten, then?”

“Aye,” Thorin said again, muffled against Bilbo's curly pate. Down below his feet, someone muttered sleepy nonsense, and behind him, Dori began to snore softly, like the rustle of dried leaves.

Curled beside his chest, Bilbo did not stir again until after daybreak began to filter through the trees, grey and dreadful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, I think I'll tackle Thorin captured by Thranduil. After that, I'm not certain. Are there any bits you'd like to see, gentle reader?
> 
> And yes, Thorin, Bilbo, and the "betrayal" with the Arkenstone is something I do plan to write, once I gird myself against the angst.


	4. Chapter 4

“Here.” Thorin cradled the unwrapped portion of honey cake carefully in his palm, unwilling to risk losing even a single crumb. The vast misery of Mirkwood still stretched some unknown distance before them, and though generous, their supplies from Beorn had begun to grow scant. Their rations, likewise, were meagre; this bit of cake, smaller than his palm and barely two fingers thick, was half of Thorin’s own allotment of supper. Perched on a partially rotted log, with his feet drawn up off the mucky earth and arms wrapped around his calves, Bilbo looked curiously from the offered cake to Thorin’s face and back again.

“Oh, I’ve already had my share tonight.” Curling forward, the hobbit rested his impossibly smooth chin on his knees, and smiled despite the obvious weariness creasing his face. “But thank you.”

Thorin did not move, except to raise his brows. Their burglar was fading more each day, and little as he was, there was far less of him to lose to the pangs of hunger than even young Ori. “I know. Take it; I can do with half.”

“What?” Sitting up straighter, as though he’d been prodded by a thorn, Bilbo goggled at the food offered. After another moment spent floundering, his gaze darted around at the rest of their company, as if some other grumbling dwarf might have an answer for him. Night was swift approaching, however, and the others were busy with their own meagre suppers, or seeing to the necessary preparations.

“Take it, I said,” Thorin repeated, allowing a sliver of impatience to sharpen the words to an order. “Eat it now, or save it for tomorrow— it hardly matters— but take it. You’ll be no good to us wasted away to bones.”

If anything, Bilbo seemed to bristle under the command, rather than cow to it as Thorin had half-expected. He was learning, however, that one of the only safe expectations to hold about Mister Bilbo Baggins was that he would often surprise you, sometimes even spectacularly so.

“I’ll have you know,” the hobbit said, one finger jabbing the air between them. “That I was called a _fat bunny_ by good Master Beorn not a week ago, and the fit of my trousers stands testament that not all that much has changed since. We’re all of us peckish, but if our options are quieting my belly or keeping your sword arm strong in these horrible woods, I know what I’ll choose. Eat your own rations.”

In all that nattering argument, one small detail shone brighter than all the rest, and Thorin could not help but latch onto it like a beggar grasping a glinting coin. “He said— a fat _bunny_?”

Eyes widening, even as his mouth twisted in displeasure, Bilbo dropped his forehead back down onto his knees with grunt, bouncing his head a few times like the knocker on a door. “I _didn’t_ — I hadn’t meant to mention that. Would you keep your voice down, please?”

He could have, entirely by rights, simply dismissed Bilbo’s objections and insisted the food be accepted. He was leader of their company, after all, and that afforded him some measure of authority (the precise amount of authority he wielded depended upon the moods of his kinsman; they were unswervingly loyal, but also headstrong, as good dwarven men should be). This was a fine opportunity, however, to avoid bringing such weight to bear over a ridiculous argument.

Stepping closer, angling himself to afford them a bit more privacy from the others, Thorin lifted the cake before Bilbo’s nose. “I swear I’ll not speak a word of it, if you take this. If not, then I’m certain Bofur will be glad to spend these next weeks composing a tune or two in honour of our Mister Bunny Baggins.”

“You— For goodness sake!” Plucking up the cake, Bilbo glared at it before tearing the thick, nutty slice in twain and pushing one piece back into Thorin’s hand. “That is absolutely all I’ll take, mark my words.”

The small portion was gone in three neat bites, leaving Bilbo sucking moistened crumbs from his fingertips, and after a moment’s consideration, Thorin conceded with a huff. The cake was dense and pleasantly sweet, not cloying, but all that truly mattered was the tiny fraction of his slowly mounting hunger that the morsel managed to fill. Careful rationing of their supplies meant the growling and grumbling had begun early into their trek through Mirkwood, but Beorn’s cautions had proven entirely true— there was no sign of fruit, nor edible mushrooms to be seen anywhere along the path, and an attempt to roast one of the forest’s few chattering squirrels had yielded only bitter, sickening meat. Still, Thorin knew famine very well, and he greeted the ache in his gut with the respect due an old, intractable enemy. It had not bested him yet, not through the long trek from a ruined Erebor all those years ago, nor in any hard time since— and of those there had been many.

“Oi, lads, listen.” Across their chosen patch of twisting path, just large enough to camp for the night, Dwalin was on his feet and tense as a coursing hound in sight of a hare. “You hear that?”

The others fell silent, almost as one, and Thorin held out a hand for Bilbo to stay put. The forest around them seemed as still as a tomb, without a single note of birdsong or flutter of insects, and the great, ghostly cobwebs had begun to drape thicker through the trees as they delved deeper along the path. Thorin's arm strayed towards his sword, not content until the weight of the grip was firm against his palm, and strained to hear whatever ill-omened sound had caught Dwalin's attention.

Were it not for the unnatural stillness, the distant rushing of water would have gone quite unnoticed.

“Water,” said Kili, just as Fili grinned crookedly and guessed: “The enchanted river?”

“Perhaps.” Dwalin cocked his head towards the faint noise, then turned to Thorin. “Should we make for it before night hobbles us entirely? We've not much daylight left.”

“Sound travels oddly here, among these cursed trees,” Balin murmured, peering into the gloom. “If it is the river Beorn spoke of, it could still be half a league off. And beyond that, I've no wish to try my hand at clambering over some bewitched stream in the pitch black.”

“We'll camp here tonight,” Thorin agreed, no matter how his feet itched to move forward now that one small goal seemed nearly in sight. There had been too many days of monotonous trees and terrible eyes in the dark, and no sense of progress. “And make for the river at first light.”

They did not need to be reminded to huddle near as evening gave way to night; not one of them was alone when the darkness sank like a shroud, blotting out the world. Tucked into the crook of Thorin's arm, as he had slept every night since they'd entered Mirkwood, Bilbo settled quickly into a light slumber. Under his hand, Thorin could feel the steady thrum of the hobbit's heartbeat, and the rhythm kept him company as he drifted between sleep and waking, watching the blackness around them late into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

“Bugger, but I do hope he wakes soon, so I can knock him out!” Bofur was panting, brow slick with sweat under the edge of his hat. Thorin grunted in reply, unwilling to waste words while Bombur hung like dead weight across his shoulders; it took four of them straining to carry the great lummox, and Thorin’s turn at it (along with Bofur, Ori, and Nori) was thankfully nearly finished.

“Do you hear me, brother, you lazy lump? Stop your loafing and _wake up_ — give me a chance to kill you before we all starve to death.” Growling now, teeth clenched, Bofur kept yammering on despite Bombur’s refusal to flutter even a single eyelid. Thorin did not have the heart to order silence, no matter how much he might yearn for a moment’s peace. The thought of his own blood, one of his dear nephews, lying as limp and unresponsive as death was enough to keep his temper in check.

“We’re not starving yet,” said Dwalin, trudging along ahead, an extra pack slung across his shoulders, though it was not bulging with gear. Their supplies were dwindling too fast, even without Bombur taking his share. “We’ve still got our boots and belts to eat, if it comes to it.”

Water was their greatest concern for the moment; a shower of rain would no doubt turn the path to sodden mire, but at the very least they might be able to fill their empty skins, or even wet their parched tongues. Not a drop had fallen since they had entered the forest, however, and only Bombur had quenched himself in the cursed river, though that had been by clumsiness rather than choice.

A shout from Fili, scouting farther in front with his brother, had Thorin calling a momentary halt. If ther was trouble ahead, he would rather not be caught in it while tangled in Bombur’s girth. Dropping their cargo carefully onto a bed of dry, fallen leaves, Thorin took the opportunity to stretch his abused joints, especially the punishing ache in his knees. 

When the lads appeared back along the path, however, it was not the promise of battle that twisted their features.

“Uncle—” Fili motioned for him to follow, frowning, while Kili’s head hung low. They looked like beaten men, and Thorin felt his own stomach sink. “You must come see, just over the hill.”

Thorin nodded, turning to his company, and motioned to Bombur’s slumbering body with a stern look that would brook no argument. “The rest of you, wait here with him.”

It was no great distance— they did not dare send scouts too far ahead. A short trek up the path, and Thorin stood on the crest of a hill, beyond which their route dipped sharply into a vast, wooded valley. Since the river, the forest had changed from a murky, overgrown tangle to a sea of endless beeches and mournfully wailing breeze, and now it appeared ready to shift again into copses of oak, still shadowy and draped with thick cobwebs.

“Oh, have mercy,” Thorin whispered, his eyes still scanning the woods below even as he reached out to hold both his nephews by the shoulder, gripping firm for just a moment. “Is there truly no end to this vile place?”

“I fear we’ll meet our end here if there isn’t,” Kili said, just as quietly, and Thorin forced himself to harden despite the despair leeching through his veins. The line of Durin would not be brought low by a few more miles of trees.

Grasping quickly for some answer, some solution, Thorin considered the imposing rows of beeches hemming them in. The trunks were tall and straight, like pillars in some mighty hall, but they might find branches suitable for a small enough creature to scurry up, with all due care.

“We will not continue as we are,” he said, giving each nephew an encouraging clap on the back before calling back the way they had come. He already hated the plan forming in his mind, but there was little else to do. “Bilbo Baggins! Come here, and bring the others.”

 

* * *

 

“Be careful, laddie!” Standing beneath a large oak, the beeches having proved too smooth for safe climbing, Balin peered up with one hand shading his eyes from what little muted midday sun filtered into Mirkwood. Yards above, nearly out of sight amongst the foliage, Bilbo was still slowly scaling from branch to branch. The hobbit had paled at the thought of climbing so high, but he hadn’t refused, and now Thorin’s heart felt as though it was crawling up into his mouth. They could not risk travelling blind for much longer, but a fall from such a height would do their tiny burglar no favours at all.

“There,” Balin said, stepping back to find a better angle. “I’ve lost him, but he must be near the top by now. Can you still hear me, lad?”

“I can, yes,” came a reedy voice from high above, the sound likely carrying for miles around. “I’m nearly— Oh!" 

Silence followed, without even the flutter of leaves, and blessedly without the crackle of a wee body tumbling through branches. After a few tense moments, Thorin moved to lean one hand against the rough bark, squinting into the canopy and seeing nothing but autumn leaves, lush and painted red as fresh blood. “Bilbo! What do you see?”

There was no answer, nor any after he called again, harsher with impatience. It took the lot of them, shouting up to the treetops, before finally the halfling deigned to reply, calling out reassurances as he clambered slowly down. The lowest branches of the oak were still too high for hobbits— Thorin had boosted him up to begin his climb in the first place, and now similar help was offered to reach solid ground again. Catching Bilbo round the hips, Thorin hoisted him down with much less strain than Bombur’s bulk caused, even if the descent from the tree required a bit of a leap.

Blinking and covered in shallow, reddened scratches, Bilbo kept hold of Thorin’s forearms as he gained his breath again. “You’ll not like it,” he said, sounding even more hoarse and weary than before his climb. “I couldn’t see an end to the wood— just trees and trees, fading off into forever.” Grumbling started immediately at that poor news, the herald of surrender, of waning spirit, and that could not be permitted.

“There _is_ an end,” Thorin snapped, drawing on anger to quash the anxiety tightening his chest. He could not afford a moment to regret Bilbo’s flinch at his tone; not if they meant to escape this wood alive. “There is a mountain, there—” Drawing up tall and firm, Thorin freed himself from the hobbit’s touch and swept a hand eastward, addressing his company. “There is Erebor. We have seen her on the horizon, lonely and proud, and we _will_ see her again. Come; we’ve daylight left and ground to cover.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's opinions of elves certainly don't reflect my own, just to be perfectly clear.

It had been unbelievably foolish to leave the path, and Thorin had said so. He had argued and shouted, but hunger had won out against deference in the end, and the plan had passed an ill-considered vote— curse Bombur and his idiot dreaming, and curse all thoughtless hobbits who lacked enough good sense to fill a thimble!

“Bilbo!” Stumbling around in the darkness, thankful to have found all but one of their group, Thorin kept tight hold of Fili’s hand as they searched. Grown dwarven men strung along in a chain of linked hands like children playing was not the proudest sight one might imagine, but that hardly mattered. The darkness swallowed up any hope of seeing anything at all, and safety was preferable to pride.

Now they simply needed to find their hobbit.

“Bilbo! Where are you?” Listening for the smallest groan or rustle of leaves was difficult with the pounding in his ears, his heart hammering against his ribs like war drums; if there was any benefit to the darkness, it was at least impossible for any of the others to read the panic etched across his face. They all called for the hobbit in turns, loud and desperate.

“Bilbo! Bilbo!”

“You dratted little hobbit! Bilbo Baggins!”

“Oi, Baggins! Bilbo Baggins!”

“Bilbo! Oh, please say something, friend— anything! Bilbo!” 

It was too long before the cry finally went up, near the other end of their line. “Found him,” called Dori, and then, “Little man was fast asleep, for goodness sake!”

Breath heaving like bellows, and every inhale tasting of copper, Thorin started down towards the far tail of the group, shifting his grip from hand to hand along the company so as to never be completely isolated in the darkness. In these woods, and now having strayed off the only path, he wouldn’t trust a single step un-tethered. 

“ _Hobbit_ ,” Thorin very nearly roared, finally reaching their wayward companion, bumping hard against the small, easily recognized body. Keeping one hand clasped with Dori’s still afforded him the ability to haul Bilbo close by the collar, lifting and shaking him with barely restrained roughness. “Blasted hobbit, did you not hear us calling? Did you not care?”

“I didn’t!” Bare hands, small but surprisingly strong, clawed at his wrist, but the leather of his bracer could take much more punishment than this little halfling could deal. “I didn’t hear! I’ve never slept so deeply in my life, and without meaning to— I swear, I didn’t hear!”

“You didn't... We thought you were lost to the woods, you impossible creature.” The dark could hide so much; shifting his hold, letting Bilbo’s feet drop firmly onto the ground again, Thorin burrowed his fingers in damp, tangled curls and pulled the hobbit into a hard embrace. Bilbo, to his credit, gave only one sharp gasp before quieting, and Thorin welcomed the feel of arms wrapping snugly around his own ribs in return. Damnable, foolish hobbit...

“Well, good enough,” said Nori, nearby, and a few of the other muttered agreement. “At least now we’re all lost together.”

 

* * *

 

Swallowing back every groan of pain that threatened to escape his lips, Thorin kept his breathing steady and even as his captors dragged him along, trussed up like a pheasant ready for the pot. The damage the Pale Orc's warg had done to his ribs had healed, for the most part, but there was lingering tenderness where the elven bindings bit into his flesh. 

Whatever foul magics these elves had placed upon him, Thorin felt as though his muscles had been replaced with massive stones, immovably heavy. He had lain in that clearing for hours, paralyzed and helpless, as the shouts of his brothers and the din of battle waged agonizingly nearby, but he could not even force his throat to whisper. Then the sounds had faded, even their echos replaced with chilling silence, and still Thorin had waited— first for salvation, then for death.

The Wood-elves were neither, but they took him regardless, melting out of the trees with soundless steps.

And that was how he'd found himself tossed into a damp dungeon cell, for these elves were clever enough to emulate his people, carving their home from stalwart walls of stone. They did not treat him as a friend, nor even extend the basic courtesies a guest would expect, but Thorin was hardly surprised. His humour did not improve when they brought him before their lord; Thranduil had not changed a whit in the years since they had last met. Still the odious popinjay perched so proudly, unconcerned by the troubles of lesser creatures.

Thorin had taken some small measure of pleasure in answering the elf's questions with vague but honest talk of hunger and need, and then with unflinching silence. If the elf king wanted to know the purpose of their journey, he could try cutting it from Thorin's hide and divining his answers from the wet side, but he would find nothing there but the blood of Durin's kin and a heart that beats for a mountain.

The sorrowful look that flashed across Thranduil's face when told exactly that, snarled out in embittered Khuzdul, might have given Thorin pause, if not for the fact that he was still bound and on his knees. If the elf was surprised by his anger, or even saddened by it, Thorin refused to care. When they hauled him off to a shadowy cell, he refused to flinch, even when his very bones screamed agony at him.

And so he sat, on cold stone and musty straw, and waited for his opportunity. He was Thorin son of Thrain, and he would not wither away in some elven prison, at the mercy of Thranduil, the pitiless and untrue.

At the very least they didn't mean to starve him to death, regularly sliding small loaves of bread and wedges of bland cheese through the slot at the bottom of his cell door. He was given water as well, but no light to see by, nor any contact with the elves since that unfortunate meeting with Thranduil. He wondered, marking the days by the schedule of food, how long it might be before he was trotted back out before the elf king to be questioned again, and prepared himself every time near-silent footfalls padded down the corridor. They would regret opening his cage door, when that day finally came.

He was not nearly as prepared for a familiar whisper in the darkness, but to say it was unwelcome would have been the greatest lie of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, thank you so much for reading, and for the responses so far! I'm incredibly pleased that some folk are enjoying this story; it's certainly grabbed hold of me, and I'm really enjoying writing it.
> 
> I'm also putting together ideas for scenes some of you have mentioned that you'd like to see; I really do appreciate the inspiration, so thank you again <3


	7. Chapter 7

“Thorin?” Rousing from his doze, shaking off the clinging tendrils of sleep, Thorin was convinced he had imagined the voice in the darkness, until it spoke again. “Thorin? Are you all right?”

Leaving his meagre heap of straw behind for the moment, Thorin immediately moved to kneel beside the door, peering out the slot into the dimly lit corridor beyond. Emptiness greeted him, cold and desolate, and not for the first time since the lock had snapped shut, Thorin wondered if he might be starting to go mad.

Resting his forehead against the scarred wood of the door, Thorin allowed himself a ragged sigh, slumping forward with weakening hope. His imagination was a cruel—

“Thorin, I know you can’t see me, but I’m here, I swear.” The elves had taken his armour, stripping him down to shirt and trousers, without even his coat to ward off the chill of their prison; the air was crisp with autumn, not the bite of winter, so he could not truly blame the cold for the lunacy creeping into his mind. They fed him as well, and allowed him to rest without interference, so it wasn’t likely his delusion was born of hunger or exhaustion, either.

“Why...” Acknowledging this figment of his addled brain seemed liable to worsen his decline, but Thorin could not help but speak. “Bilbo? Is it— Why can’t I see you?”

There was a soft chuckle, so achingly familiar after so long with only his own heartbeat for fellowship that Thorin’s breathing hitched. Then, before he could think to dismiss his bout of madness, there followed the strangest sensation of unseen fingers touching his own, curling around the hand he had braced on the floor. “A magic ring, if you can believe it— makes me invisible. I’ll explain it later, but for now, are you all right?”

In truth, he was beginning to grow ill from the bleakness of his current plight— it was a poison creeping into the deepest parts of his heart. Bilbo's mystifying presence, real or imaginary, was enough to stifle that vile bitterness for the moment.

“I’m fine, though sorely tired of this cage.” With his free hand, Thorin traced invisible knuckles, then a slim wrist, sliding his touch carefully up the forearm that apparently reached through the narrow slot. It was absolutely remarkable; he had heard of similar magic, but never seen it with his own eyes, nor ever expected it from a hobbit. “Are the others with you? Is everyone safe?”

“They’re safe, yes, but locked up just as you are. I’ve managed to stay hidden.” Thorin heard shuffling, and felt the arm in his grip flex and move, but Bilbo’s hold did not falter, tightening instead. “There were giant spiders, horrifying things, and we couldn’t find you; the elves appeared before we could go back to search. I was certain you’d... I mean, I thought, I _feared_... Oh, by all that’s good in this world, you’ve no idea how happy I am to see you alive.”

“And I am happy to be seen, my dear Bilbo.” Warmth bloomed in Thorin’s chest, a flare of hope in the darkness, and he forcefully cast aside the doubts that had been chipping away his resolve. Thranduil would suffer ignorance of their goals for a bit longer yet. “And I’ll be happier still to see you, once we breathe the free air again. For now, tell me everything that’s happened.”

 

* * *

 

Though the occasional company was welcome, Thorin found himself growing all the more restless now; Bilbo’s visits always brought reports of dead-ends and failures. Having one of their company free to sneak about unmolested seemed like such a neat solution at first, better at least than languishing in his cell for a century, but no part of this quest had ever been as simple as all that.

“Would that these damnable elves had chosen some airy copse of trees to nest in.” Sitting with his back pressed against the door, legs splayed out before him, Thorin kept his head angled down to better be heard by his discouraged little burglar. “I’d never had reason to curse the sturdiness of caves before now. Not even a window big enough to squeeze through, you said?”

“No, Thorin.” Bilbo huffed quietly, and Thorin could easily imagine the exasperated frown overtaking his expressive features. “The entire place is sealed up as tight as my Uncle Longo’s purse, which I assure you has always been very tightly sealed indeed.” It had been nearly a fortnight since their first meeting like this, whispering through the cell door, and despite the frustration and tedium, Thorin would admit he did not entirely envy Bilbo his current role as spy. The hobbit was invisible, but not incorporeal— one misstep, one overheard footfall or murmur, and all his sneaking about could come to quite an ignoble end. Stealing scraps of food and dozing nervously in corners was proving terrible for Bilbo’s nerves, which had already been frayed from their wretched trip through Mirkwood.

Thorin knew how to rouse a band of dwarves to battle, how to lift the spirits of his kin with talk of glory and gold, but hobbits were odd creatures, and Bilbo Baggins was even odder still. With no great desire to be chewed on by another giant warg or nearly beheaded, Thorin took a moment to consider what other sort of encouragement might stir the halfling’s daring once more.

“Bilbo,” he said eventually, and waited for the hum of acknowledgement to follow. On occasion, the hobbit did vanish without warning— usually just before Thorin heard the light treading of elven feet approach. When his audience confirmed its presence, Thorin pressed on. “After all we’ve been through on this journey, I would be a fool to doubt your ingenuity or your resolve. You will find a way, clever as you are; I trust in that.” 

“I... will try.” It wasn’t quite a whoop of confidence revived, but Thorin heard steel harden beneath those hushed words all the same. “Though I’m fairly certain at least one of us is completely mad for putting this all on my shoulders.”

Slipping one hand out through the door’s slot, Thorin mustered enough humour for a small smile when cool, nimble fingers threaded through his own, though Bilbo could not see his expression. Off in the shadowy corners of the room, Thorin knew small, spindly brown spiders were busy weaving their cobwebs, and he recalled the tale Bilbo had told him— a story of wet, flashing fangs, dripping with venom, and the crunch of one tiny blade cleaving through thick carapace. A story of his kinsman poisoned and bound, and of monsters shrieking for mercy from the fury of a hobbit's sting.

“Would that I could help you bear it,” he murmured, his voice gruffer than he'd intended; he swallowed against the thick feeling in his throat before going on. “Or simply fight my way free of this prison and scorch the forest behind us to ruin... and the elf-king with it.”

“You're fed and dry.” Still held in Bilbo's grip, Thorin found his knuckles knocked against the stone floor— a gentle, scolding sort of gesture that shook him out of his darker thoughts simply for the audacity of it. “The elves could have you hung up in stocks, you know. And anyway, I'm getting rather good at saving your life, no doubt from all this practice— with the way you lot carry on it could be a full-time occupation. I shan't complain too much, as long as we're all safe, and neither should you.”

“Courage has made you cheeky, halfling.” Just as Thorin had become too tolerant of that same cheekiness... and perhaps too fond of their little burglar.

“Mm, and all this waiting has made us both downhearted. That won't do, at all.” Bilbo squeezed his fingers once more, a now-familiar farewell, and Thorin was shamefully reluctant to allow the retreat he sensed was quick approaching. The silence was simply too thunderous without a whispered voice in the dark to temper it. “I’m off to scout below again, see if I missed anything in the kitchens. Shall I bring you anything tomorrow, if I’m able?”

A knife would have been a comfort, but too many questions would be raised if it was seen by his gaolers (unless he was able to gut them quickly and make his own escape). And though he'd wet his own small blade on orcs and spiders, Bilbo would likely kick up another fuss about bloodshed when sneaking would do. Thorin would have pushed the point, if not for his kin and companions; he was not foolish enough to risk taking on Thranduil's entire household while the others were locked away, nor would he consider leaving a single dwarf behind. Creeping about like rats was the better option, bitter as it might taste.

“Meat, if you can, but be cautious. They give me food enough to live, and I would much rather go without a bite of venison than see our rescuer locked away.”

“I’m always cautious— comes with being scared silly.” For an instant, just before he was released, Thorin felt the lightest press of lips against his hand, soft over the root of his thumb. The kiss was there and gone almost too quickly to notice, but Thorin had no doubt he would feel the warmth of its memory lingering for hours, or likely much longer. 

When Bilbo's touch withdrew entirely, Thorin did not grasp for his anchor to return; their salvation would be slow in coming if the hobbit was forced to loiter as nursemaid to one lonesome dwarf. He was not some wee child, pining for company to chase off the fanciful terrors from the shadows. 

“Take care, burglar,” he rumbled instead, subdued in his return to solitude. He heard nothing but silence in return, unsure if Bilbo was still there to hear.


	8. Chapter 8

“You— You cannot be serious!” Gloin's voice was a muted growl, echoed by a chorus of incredulity from the others. Bombur, especially, was peering at the barrels with the wild-eyed, greenish look of a man facing gallows. Thorin hushed them with a sharp glare and an admonishing gesture; they were too close to freedom to be undone by wittering.

Beside him, Dwalin kept his jaw clenched, but gestured: _this is madness._

“Foolishness,” Nori hissed from somewhere deep in their anxious cluster, and then there was a red-faced little hobbit in their midst, appearing without warning between one blink and the next, just beside Thorin's elbow. His hair was a nest of tangles, his clothing ruined with filth, and dark circles bruised under his flashing, furious eyes. 

“Fine, yes, it's foolishness.” Hands clenched into fists at his sides, Bilbo stamped one hairy foot, sending up a puff of dust from the straw that lined the cellar floor. “You all can just pop back to your cells then. Surely some other opportunity will just drop into our laps. Oh, maybe tomorrow they'll forget to lock the front door, and your cells will just spring open on their own, since I'll not likely get hold of those keys again— wouldn't that be a _spot of luck—_ ”

“ _Silence_.” Bilbo's expression still simmered perilously, this bout of surprising temper simply further proof of the strain he had endured for them, but at Thorin's word he quieted without argument. Before he could think better of it, Thorin reached out and laid one hand across the hobbit's nape, gentle but firm. Despite their precarious circumstances, he enjoyed a twist of heat low in his gut, feeling something like triumph, when the touch was not shrugged off... but this was hardly the time for wandering thoughts.

“Easy,” he whispered, while his thumb traced lightly through gritty, sweat-damp curls. Every moment wasted brought them closer to discovery, to failure, and to elves descending upon them like crows on a carcass. “All of you, peace. Unless there is a better plan to be had this instant, and the means to enact it, we will get in the confounded barrels. Now.”

 

* * *

 

It had been a spectacularly terrible plan.

Air holes had been a sorely missed luxury while they were crammed into the stinking, oaken casks, stifling every breath of noise so as not to alert their tipsy elven accomplices. Any tiny sip of fresh air would have been a blessing as they all choked silently on the cloying stink of apples or pickling brine, or whatever else their disguises had once held. Once they had been rolled into the water, however (which had been a sickening, lurching experience on its own), the leaking under Thorin's lid had been bad enough without assistance.

They bobbed and crashed along the waterway, and the rushing torrent was a deafening echo buffeting through the barrel, louder than thunder or orcish drums; if the river did not kill him, Thorin was convinced his skull would simply crack from the din. He could not hear anything of the others, beyond the explosive cracks of barrels slamming against his own, and fear gripped his heart with pitiless claws, razor-sharp and more frigid than the water splashing his face. These dwarves and their little burglar— old friends, companions, and kin— were under his protection.

Betrayal and grief had not bested him, nor had the relentless battering of the Defiler's hatred. He had survived the licking flames of a dragon's avarice, the wretched exile that followed, and more importantly, he had brought his people through as well— leaner, humbler, but stronger.

Having his brains dashed across the inside of a butter barrel was no fitting end for Thorin Oakenshield, nor for any of his loyal company. He would not be brought so low, battered and drowned, on the coattails of Thranduil's hospitality. He would breathe free air again, with spine straight and eyes forward, eastward, toward home. His kinsmen would walk the halls of Erebor, grand and vaulted, and the songs of their victory would be sung long into the next Age.

He would cuff Bilbo Baggins for suggesting such a fool plan as this, then hold the hobbit so close that not a whisper of air might pass between them.

It followed, of course, that the river chose that precise opportunity to throw his barrel hard upon some unyielding obstacle, and pain exploded through the base of Thorin's skull.

And he knew nothing but darkness.

 

* * *

 

_There is fire, so much **fire** , rolling deep and merciless in his belly, scorching into his chest. A searing glut of flame and fury, pushing, pulsing; it is his rage, burning merciless and cruel, to loose upon his enemies._

_He is the dragon, the destroyer... a beast of greed, of hate, remorseless, furious. His heart is a pit of coal, of obsidian, black as night and sharp as fractured glass. Impossible ice, cold and unfeeling, gleaming in a wreath of flame and the molten depths of a mountain._

_He is the dragon; he is the monster. There is nothing but ash beneath his ribs—_

 

* * *

 

Thorin woke, thrashing, gagging great heaves of water onto the stones beneath his back; he felt as though he'd been turned wrong-side-out, with every nerve singing the agony of a flayed man. Every desperate lungful of air threatened to crack him in two, rending his ribs asunder, and every cough felt torn from his very foundation. The light was too bright, his eyes too blurred, and he dug his fingers hard into smooth, shifting rocks, desperate for solid ground.

“Thorin!” Only then did he notice the weight pressing down on his hips, not immovable but heavy enough to keep him from rolling over without effort. He twisted back, flopping his shoulders down flat despite the pain of every motion, and blinked up at the bright blue sky far above. Barely a heartbeat later (miraculously, his heart still hammered strong), the view was darkened by a bedraggled, sopping head of curls. Bilbo was deathly pale, looking more like a wraith than a hobbit; there were river weeds hanging from his collar. “Thorin, oh— just breathe. Deep breaths.” 

His own voice was beyond reach, lost beneath the ragged panting and the fading burning of his lungs, but Thorin managed a gasp that was perilously close to a laugh. Though his arms felt weighted, leaden, he still dragged them up enough to clutch at the soaked wool of Bilbo's trousers, grasping tight. 

The hands that closed over his own were as cold as the river, but their grip was steady, keeping him tethered until he caught his breath. Around him, he heard hoarse voices and harsh coughs— nearest to him, Dwalin was cursing, and Ori was fretting over his brothers. There was no wailing, though, and no bitter snarls of grief; perhaps the river had been merciful.

Perhaps, he considered, watching wide blue eyes peering down at him... perhaps the luck of a hobbit had seen them through their trials once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun playing around a bit with canons for my own nefarious purposes. From everything I've seen so far, it looks as though the next film is going to have dwarves bobbing along in barrels without lids, while book barrels were closed up and cramped— I waffled about which to go with, but shoved-in-a-tub-Thorin won out. Anyway, next up should be Lake-town, with Bilbo feeling ill, and also the last comfortable bed before Erebor and Smaug— I'm thinking that means some sex is about due. Yes?
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and for the lovely comments I've received so far. The response to this story has been wonderful and humbling, and you're all just brilliant!


End file.
